Poems: 2015 -

Hidden Scars

Some poems come forth in public mode,
unafraid to meet the reader’s eyes,
newborns eager to embrace the light,
to find acceptance on a page,
but others come from darkness deep,
in private do they choose to dwell,
no spying eyes will read their pain
nor be made uneasy by their rage.

The scars of childhood have not healed,
but lay hidden under passing years,
till in sudden resurrection
they seize my soul and rise again;
no force of will can keep them mute
and so I choose to wall them in,
to prevent their wild emergence
from tarnishing my poet’s pen.

I place the chosen poems before you
in hope that they will touch your heart,
these offspring of a gentler Muse
may meet your gaze unflinchingly,
and if perchance you take this gift,
see some merit in my public words,
those hidden scars may cease to scream,
silenced by your grace convincingly.


July 2015

Last winter was abysmal,
now summer is just dismal,
the clouds refuse to leave,
no sun do we perceive,
the skies have turned to gray,
the rains have come to stay,
the fields are saturated,
the farmers are frustrated,
instead of merry summer,
July turned out a bummer,
my sunscreen lies unused,
my patience is abused,
August may be better,
says the voice of weather,
but forecasts can be wrong,
and have been all along,
the hot days they predicted,
Nature contradicted,
I trust them not at all—
in grief this poem I scrawl.



In the Name of God, 1: Rivers of Blood

Rivers of blood,
bodies broken,
students and teachers,
so many condemned
by two words spoken;
families bury
sons and daughters,
dreams aborted,
the future fades
with sudden slaughter.

Forces of hatred
loose in the land,
their mindless evil
pollutes the ground
on which they stand;
no cause requires
innocents die,
barbarians roam,
and every excuse
is just a lie.

Cowards and bullies,
emboldened by guns,
despite their delusions
are not the anointed,
not chosen ones,
for no merciful God
accepts their claim,
or grants them permission
to do what they do
in His holy name.


In the Name of God, 2: Children of War

Prologue:

Flowers open to the sun,
to bloom for but one day,
showing off their colours
in a glorious array.

They enter our homes
on sixty-inch screens,
gone are their parents,
and lost are their dreams,
bombs fall among them
with ruin in their wake,
no place to seek shelter
when every house quakes;

no food for their bodies,
no balm for their wounds,
by wars of religion
their lives are all doomed;
but what God has decreed
that rivers run red,
that children lay slaughtered
and not safe in bed—

all blessings destroyed
by prophets aflame,
the world torn apart
in an unending game,
while we, far away,
lay eyes on our screens,
then change the channel
to escape from their screams.

Epilogue:

Flowers close as dusk takes hold,
nevermore to see the light,
their time on earth expended—
but, Lord, how they shined so bright.


New Year’s Morning

Frost crystals
sparkling in sunshine,
soon to disappear,
dark clouds advancing.

Walking together,
feet crush snow,
no words spoken —
a quiet adoration.

Love in winter
fears no silence,
exists omniscient,
transfigured by time.

I the pilgrim,
you the priest,
anointed and exalted
at love’s altar.

No earthly fear,
no desecration—
this sacred power
defeats all tempests.


___________________________________________________________


Residential Schools Trilogy

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canadian_Indian_residential_school_system


1. Before

Great Spirits smiled, and guided them
through hunting grounds of teeming game,
where bison drank at rivers free
until the ice of winter came;
at night the Elders told their tales
as lambent fires pierced the dark,
to teach the children of the tribe
the meaning of each track and mark.
Each dawn those children rose from sleep
to roam the forests or the plains,
to hunt and gather from the earth,
to feed the blood within their veins;
nomads of the northern clime,
clans the Great Creator blessed,
the first to cross a continent,
all free to wander, then to rest.
Even winter in its violence
could never make their spirits fall —
these children of abundant lands,
until the white men took it all.


2. Then

Round up all the children,
God commands us to remove them,
take them south and far away,
from their parents’ savage sway,
make them live in unknown lands
subject to remorseless hands,
extract them from their nations,
they require education.

Take them while they’re very young
so they forget their native tongue,
starve them into righteousness
in your quest to see them blessed;
don’t hesitate to use them,
take the girls, abuse them,
satisfy your private needs —
penetrate until it bleeds.

Let the boys learn to obey,
they must live the Christian way,
lash them hard if they refuse,
save them with enlightened views;
and if some die, then so it be,
punished for their savagery,
no need to mourn their passing —
Christ’s blessing you’re amassing.

We do the work decreed by God
as we strike them with the rod —
and who will know or disagree
when we lead them to divinity?
In Jesus’ name we claim them,
in Jesus’ name we maim them,
blessed be our sacred mission
to make of them an exhibition.


3. Now

You see them on the streets,
ghosts of the past,
voices muted,
eyes like hollow glass,
and you walk away so fast.

Apologies were given
with dollar bills that cannot heal
their homelessness,
their hopelessness,
the sense of loss they feel.

Violated and abused,
unable to forget,
hearing still incessant screams,
haunted by recurrent dreams
as if in concrete set.

Nomads of the urban streets,
no return to ancestral lands,
the feathers and the fur
become a distant blur,
now alien to their hands.

The schools have all been closed,
confessions have been made,
but nothing can outweigh
the wounds we seen reflected
____________________________________________

Solitary Soul

A solitary soul

within the human herd,

with voices all around

she hardly said a word,

preferred the quiet brook

at play within the woods,

the sounds of all the birds

she fully understood,

the stars she gazed upon

forever brought her peace,

and swiftly moving clouds

would make all sorrows cease.

Judged aloof by others

of extroverted guise,

she learned to bear the pain

of disapproving eyes;

yet those who knew her well

saw love within her heart,

strong enough to fashion ties

no storm could blow apart,

able to withstand the years

passing by at rapid pace—

for a solitary soul

brings its own abiding grace.




The Child Within

Like a mirrored lake in summer,
soothing to our human eyes,
yet capable of turbulence
when deprived of its disguise,
her stillness is deceptive,
a cloak to put on every day,
to hide what she keeps secret,
and keep the memories away.

Should she appear ethereal,
her heart unscarred by misery,
look deep below her velvet cloak
to find the child she used to be—
ever fearful of the storms
bound to rage both day and night,
cowering behind closed doors,
seeking safety out of sight.

The angry words, the sudden blows,
the sound of smashing glass,
knowing even worse to come
before the storm would finally pass;
time heals all wounds, some like to say,
but she has learned to disagree—
beneath the tranquil face she shows
a frightened child will ever grieve. 


The Feeling S.A.D. Blues

I woke up this morning
snug in my bed,
bright dreams of sunshine
still in my head,

looked out the window
and was not amused,
fell back down into
the seasonal affective blues.

But I’m not leaving
on that midday plane to Cancun,
so I’ll just stay in my world,
but get out of this room;

I’ll dig out the driveway,
rev up the fire,
wear three warm layers
from Canadian Tire,

I’ll get me a book
set down in the South,
pretend I’m in Georgia,
with grits in my mouth,

then write down a poem
to bewail winter’s hold—
but I just dropped the pen,
Lord, my fingers are cold!

The Lost Years

She remembers the accident
as if she were an onlooker
watching it happen, detached:
a young girl balancing on a chair,
a summer day, on a porch,
legs straddled over the chair
tipped backwards, waving
to her grandmother on the street;
then the fall -- the chair sliding,
a head slamming into a wall,
and she awakes, recalling nothing.
as if her past had never existed,
her mind erased like a slate board
when the lesson has ended.

Now, seated in a crowded hall,
she hears laughter bursting out
as other women tell tales
of their childhood adventures,
while she sits in silence,
desperately trying to capture
chaotic images that come and go,
but create no narrative;
cruel irony, to know the teenaged years,
with their endless bullying and violence,
but forget the kinder years before,
as if her grandmother's recollections
were tales from an unknown book
she would never get to read. 


The Verdict 

The verdict comes in
and shatters my heart --
the poems I released
are judged of no art,
they lack today's Muse
and belong to a time
when sonnets were governed
by metre and rhyme,
when poets sang stories
in the dark of the night,
tales to illumine
mankind's destined plight --
irrelevant now,
these children I bear,
the modern Muse dictates
less narrative fare.
Condemned for reflecting
a style antiquated,
my pen moves more slowly,
its throne abdicated,
poems yet to be born
in the face of such violence
will live in small cells,
be sentenced to silence. 


The Winter Voyage

Hold my hand, beloved,
the keeper of my light,
lead me to a haven
immune to grief and fright,
where lovers are at peace
despite the raging winds,
where worries fade away
as a newborn year begins.
The darkness of December
has set my soul adrift,
but with your gentle touch
my sorrows start to lift —
I feel the waxing sun
upon my sea-scarred face,
our voyage to resume,
an act of godly grace.
So hold my hand, beloved,
our course is not yet done,
time enough to ride the waves,
two hearts entwined as one.


Time’s Arrow

A new year begins
just as it began:
in the dark of night,
under a curtained moon,
Time’s arrow sets its seal
on a year of yesterdays,
hours never to be altered,
now the stuff of history.

In this transient moment
I induce the future:
whatever I do now,
whatever I say now,
will create the stage
I must walk upon,
will determine the role
I will have to play.

Imagine Oedipus at Delphi—
desperate to escape his fate
but posing the wrong question,
ensuring his destruction;
I too stand at crossroads,
knowing where I wish to go
but uncertain of the path,
hesitant to take a step.

Time’s arrow speeds on,
even my hesitation matters,
each passing moment
generating a destiny,
perhaps within the hour,
on in the day to come—
whenever my Time ends,
and I become history.

Valentine’s Day (2015)

On Valentine’s Day
they would make their stand,
with hate in their hearts
and guns in their hands,
go shoot up the mall,
show no one pity,
make their names known
throughout the city;
they would rather be dead
and known everywhere
than living in shadows
where nobody cared,
where losers like them—
crazed malcontents—
could never be part
of historic events.
But someone found out
and called in the cops,
who quickly deployed
to make violence stop;
no one was murdered,
no one was maimed,
thanks to one person
no one ever named.
The city stands tall,
bloodshed at bay,
no terror transpired
on Valentine’s Day.


Vampire Love 

You make me bleed,
then drink my blood,
this selfish need
is not called love;
love's a prize
that must be shared,
your love's a guise
that brings despair.

You feed off me
as though a leech,
the depths of me
you cannot reach;
this toxic lust
I cast away,
no more to trust
your vampire sway.

Now I demand
a love sublime,
and take my stand
against your kind;
you never will know
the union of two,
wherever you go,
it's all about you.



Epilogue

Please sing the story of my life
as if it were an odyssey,
an adventure with two heroes
fate decreed would come to me;
the first a woman aged by strife
but oracular her mind,
a Pythia incarnate
knowing that I wandered blind,
afraid that I would find no way
to banish all the ghosts within,
like Scylla and Charybdis
yearning wildly for my skin;
but too soon was she taken,
and from her path did I stray,
forever changing directions,
once again to lose my way.
A second hero then appeared,
engaged in his own odyssey,
leaving prairie lands behind
in search of his true destiny,
to mute the western Siren song
by landing on an eastern shore,
to find a pleasing anchorage
so he would have to roam no more;
I was to him Penelope,
waiting for a loving heart,
beset by men of treachery—
with skill he made them all depart,
and so we joined our errant lives
in mutual devotion,
to stand as one before all foes
and cease our endless motion.
So now my book of life will close
with his most steadfast tending,
my soul released from suffering,
salvaged by a happy ending.